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fluorescentbalaclava · 6 months

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training season's over

Chapter 3: Foxtrot Oscar

Summary:

Foxtrot Oscar / FO / Fuck off (Army) Polite way of telling someone to go play on a motorway.

TF141/female reader

spy reader, forced bonding, slow burn, slow build, militar inaccuracies, sugestive language, language, canon typical violence, second chance, they hate you at first sorry

previous: chapter two "Charlie Foxtrot"

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You waited outside Price's office, biting on your chapped lips. You could hear them arguing inside, not necessarily screaming but loud enough so you could hear the words "brat", "fuck off" and "glasshouse".

After a few minutes they came out. The first one passing by you was Gaz, who just gave you a glare. Okay, fair.

The second one was Soap, who purposefully bumped into you with his shoulder, hard, making you huff. Rude.

But who took the cake was Ghost, who came out fuming from the office, and used your distraction from Soap's push to grab by the neck of your uniform and harshly ram you against the wall behind you, making you hit the back of your head and causing you to wince. Great, he’s going to chew my head off.

"Listen, you little shit," He said in a bitter tone, his eyes filled with anger and locked on yours, as he, instead of looking down, pulled you up from your clothes to meet his height, making you tip-toe to keep up. “If I catch you even thinking about trying anything, I will personally make sure to find the shittiest hole and throw you there to rot. Do you understand?"

"Roger that," You answered in a grunt, to which he just gripped your uniform tighter, pressing you harder against the wall, making you hit the back of your head again.

"Try again," He said in the same menacing tone, his eyes still watching every movement, every twitch of your face.

"Yes sir," Satisfied with your answer, he immediately dropped you, making you stumble before he followed Soap and Gaz down the hall.

Nice work environment.

This was your official introduction to your new team for the next five years. Very promising.

You had to wait one day for this, as they had to return from your hometown back to base. Price let you settle down in your new room in the barracks while you waited and you spent your free day feeling self-pity, allowing yourself to cry and let it all out so you could act normal tomorrow.

Your new room was bare and dark, with a thin and not very comfortable bunk bed, an empty desk, a chair and scattered closed boxes with some of your things. Your other belongings were inside a storage unit, as Price made sure to clear your new flat and he told you very proudly how he managed to get your deposit back and return the flat back to the real-state company with some excuses before KorTac had the chance to “accidentally” burn down the place to cover their tracks, so good-bye to your new home.

You weren't going to unpack now, not when you're feeling like your world crumbled down and you're trying to put it together. Back in KorTac you were considered missing, you imagined how they must have reacted, probably an "oh, well," before they pretended you never existed while they ran your record through the paper shredder and gave your position to someone else. Both your computer and your phone were searched thoroughly in case you were being followed and to complete the humiliation of your situation, they arranged the picture for your I.D. card to be taken immediately, masterfully capturing your broken nose and your two black eyes in a lovely plastic card that you had to present to get everywhere in base.

Price showed you around the base, and it looked like every single other one you've been in. There were barracks especially prepared for members of the 141, but the gym and mess room was shared with the rest of the base. All the rooms were the same, and there was a common room with a TV, a small kitchen, a table, a sofa... is that a PlayStation?

After the introduction incident, things went quiet. Too quiet. It took you two days to notice that they were giving you the silent treatment. The concept was too ridiculous, and you really wanted to see inside their heads to see if they actually believed that by pretending you don't exist you would go away. I kinda wish it worked like that.

The first week, every time you crossed paths with them while going to your room, they didn't even look at you. Multiple incidents made you chuckle because of their absurdity. Like that time, you were resting in the common room, drinking tea on the sofa while you watched the Great British Bake Off and they would walk to the door, notice you were there and turn around in the spot.

Eating at an empty table was also a common occurrence, as they would gather in a table far away, talking between themselves. The portions here are huge, no wonder why they look like that.

The second week the passive-aggressiveness (and sometimes not so passive) came back. You were once in the kitchen making yourself a tea, waiting for the kettle to boil while listening to music, and you spotted Soap waiting for you to finish over your shoulder. Without giving it much thought while you hummed at the song, poured him a cup of simple black coffee from the coffee machine, and turned around, handing it to him.

"How do you know I take it black?" The Scot asked confused which made you turn again.

I stalked you and your team for the last eight months. But instead of saying that, you just offered him an innocent smile making him frown as he was probably realizing what you meant with that look.

"Fucking spy" He said glaring at you, but grabbed the cup you were offering, nonetheless. A small victory, I guess.

Another time, a few days later, you were walking to the training field for a drill.

"Who is this handsome boy?" You said in a cute tone, looking over the German shepherd wearing the military harness whose leash Soap was holding.

"Riley" Gaz answered plainly, and that made you glance at Ghost, arching your brow with an inquisitive look.

"Don't look at me, I didn't pick it" He answered before looking away.

"Then why...?" You were interrupted by the dog suddenly barking at you, making you flinch back. "Oh, I can see why.”

"Look! He knows you're a criminal. Such a good boy, Riley!" Soap said in a cute tone of his own, petting the dog and scratching his head to congratulate him.

Price insisted that as a group you should go to training and target practice together to strengthen the bond.

"What bond? They hate me" You answered in an exasperated tone the first time he said that.

"Can you blame them?" You rolled your eyes, after all, this started because you were following them around, intercepting their communications and basically invading their privacy and spoiling their missions.

"Well, technically no... but---"

"Then be patient."

That's all you were to them. A merc, a criminal, an intruder, a spy. The rest of the training went awful. They worked as a team, like clockwork, they already knew each other, their reactions, their positions...and you were just there, behind them. Fuck, I'm so dead.

Once it was over and Price announced that you were leaving for an off-the-records mission in a secluded island to retrieve drones that were stolen from an American Army convoy, before they hit the dark market. While in there, you were going to split into two teams, Soap and Ghost, and Gaz and you, to cover more ground and eliminate most of the hostiles.

Your nose was almost completely healed, only a bit sensitive and there were some fading bruises under your eyes still, but the gauze was removed a few days ago, and the nurses were the only ones that were kind to you, giving the first normal conversation you had since you arrived. After visiting the infirmary to get checked and get cleared to go back for duty, you went to the showers to freshen up after the training, and the warm water helped you consider your next course of action and to reflect that if you had to die in action, it wouldn't be because of them leaving you behind. You had to set your foot down.

It was lunch time, a nice opportunity to get them all together. As you enter the hall, you spot them already eating at their usual table. Your hair was down and still damp, leaving the back of your tank top slightly wet, you were wearing your tactical pants, and your heavy boots were loud under your determined pace as you marched to their table. As you were standing next to their table, they stopped talking and put down their food to look up at your standing figure.

"Corporal?" Gaz in an inquiring tone.

These are your superior officers now; you have to respect them...but you couldn't help the words coming out of your mouth as an exasperated rant.

"Listen, I don't care if you threaten me, I don't care if you call me a criminal, merc, spy or whatever the fuck you want to call me just to antagonize me. But I am here, and I will be here for five years, nothing we can do about it and believe me when I tell you I don't want this any more than any of you do. So, unfortunately I am stuck with you, and you are stuck with me." You said putting your hands down on the table, leaning in, their eyes are fixed on you, their faces stoic…however you noticed their eyes drifting from your face, subtle, but still evident. But you didn't let it faze you, as you kept going in the same firm tone. "And I couldn't care less if you run away from me like I am the bloody plague when you see me around the base. But once we are deployed, we are a team who have to trust each other and I won't be killed in action just because three soldiers wanted to play mean girls as if we are in fucking high school and if you want to bitch about it to someone go to Price, this was his call. All I can do is to kindly ask you if you could get off your own arses and be professional enough to complete the task and then you can go back to hate me.”

They don't say anything in return, eyes fixated on you, the tension could be cut with a knife, hanging thick in the air and you could feel the eyes of the other tables in the mess-hall burning in your back.

"Did I make myself clear?" You added in the same firm tone, knowing that you might be pushing your luck talking to them that way, and you see them exchange a look.

"Crystal clear, lass" Soap finally answered, and it sounded convincing enough to make you lean back, standing straight. Lass? That's a new one.

Without further to add, you returned back where you came from, their eyes following you as you left, and from the distance you heard them talking again.

You would be lying if you said there was not certain amount of anxiousness settling on your stomach as the day of the mission approach.

next chapter: Chapter four "C.R.O.W."

if you like it leave me some kudos or suggestions on ao3! <3

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klbwriting · 8 months

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Surface Tension

Chapter 8: Shot at the Night

Fandom: Aquaman

Pairing: Ormxfemale!Reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Orm can't do much to help Y/N but he does find someone who can

Note: song is 'Shot at the Night' by the Killers

Taglist: @hyperagitatedcydonian13 @gabrieleskywalker @philiasoul @duchcess

We’re breaking all the rules To find that our home Has long been outgrown Throw me a lifeline Cause honey I’ve got nothing to lose Once in a lifetime

“Why did you settle by the ocean if you’re so afraid of water?” Orm asked, sitting on the back porch with Y/N, watching the waves under the moonlight. She was strumming, singing one of her songs. He was starting to recognize them by now and he knew she sang this one because he liked it. She looked at him and shrugged.

“I used to love the water, felt free and happy in it,” she said. “I told you I was accused of something that I didn’t do. I do bare some responsibility for it though, even though it was an accident. Ever since then, I don’t want to go back into the water, but I can’t let myself forget that day. Part of me wonders if it was my fault.” She stopped strumming and set the guitar aside, wrapping a blanket around herself.

“Did you want someone to get hurt?” he asked. She shook her head. “Not your fault, you shouldn’t stay here feeling guilty. What I did…I wanted to hurt people, all of the pain I caused was because I was angry. You didn’t have that malice.” He looked at the water before looking down at his hands. She reached out and put her hand on his arm, instantly calming him.

“Do you remember feeling like that?” she asked. “Do you ever feel like that now?” He shook his head. “Have you tried to make things right?”

“Yes, I’m trying,” he whispered. She smiled at him and squeezed his arm.

“You’ll get there, let the guilt go, but keep becoming better. I’ll help you, we are better together,” she said.

Orm startled awake, the memory fading from his dream to his waking nightmare. He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, sometime right before dawn. Last he remembered his mother and Arthur were still there making plans on finding some kind of proof of who tried to kill Orm. The footage was enough to clear Y/N of active treason, but she still could be held for conspiracy. Conspiracy to commit treason was a capital offense in Atlantis and she could still be executed if they didn’t find and get a confession from the culprit.

He was alone now with a note from Arthur that they had left to find proof in Atlantis. Arthur planned to talk to Hendrix and Atlanna was going to talk to Y/N. Orm went over to Y/N’s place. He hated to invade her privacy but maybe she had something. He started searching, trying to ignore that her bed was still unmade from where they had been together, her same clothes from her birthday on the floor around it.

“There has to be something,” he muttered to himself as he went through her closet. He moved some boxes out of the bottom and saw a small door, probably another small storage area behind the wall. He was able to pry it open and inside was a bag. He pulled it out and sat on the floor, looking through it slowly. He pulled out the mosaic of her and her father. It was cheap but well made, a product of the lower city where technology to film wasn’t as widely available. He set it aside carefully. Next came out a flyer for Atlantis for All, listing their goals as equal status, better living conditions, and fairness in the workforce. Orm remembered his father telling him that all those below the nobility were lazy, they just wanted people to hand them money and food without doing anything for it. At the time he had agreed, but this notice listed things that anyone would need to survive and thrive, which is what he thought his father wanted for all Atlantians. He set it aside also and pulled out a stack of papers. This was what he needed, letters to and from different people in AfA.

I work from morning until night, I never see my family, yet they still starve…

My mother died because we couldn’t get her a proper doctor, the nobility never have to worry…

My father died of the sickness King Orvax released when I was a child. King Orvax made me an orphan…

We can fix this. There is a way. King Orm’s coronation is on the first day of the Great Migration…

Here is what he needed. He read through the letter, it laid out a plan to protest, nothing else. They were to have Y/N sing, and Hendrix volunteered to bring the cracker. This was almost enough, but Orm needed something else. Aria was mentioned as one of the leaders of the group. He had to find her; she might have more proof.

Orm wasn’t sure where else to go so he went to the café. It was empty except for Y/N’s friends when he arrived. They were all glaring at him. When he walked in Dean came up and punched him in the face. It didn’t hurt, but Orm wasn’t expecting it and stumbled back a step. Dean was shaking his hand, wincing. He had probably broken a couple fingers. Aria pushed past him.

“Get out tyrant,” she demanded. Orm stood his ground. “We know you did something to her, no one can find her.”

“I didn’t do anything, but Hendrix took her back to Atlantis to face trial for treason,” he said. Aria froze.

“You’re lying, you gave her up,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“If I gave her up I would be on my way to trial too. I’m a fugitive just as much as the two of you,” he said. “We need proof that Hendrix was the one who tried to kill me. I found a letter in her things with the plan for the coronation day, it says Hendrix was to get the cracker, but we need more than that, anything that makes it sound like he alone planned the attempt.” Aria was breathing deep, trying to remain calm.

“How do we know you won’t just take the evidence and destroy it?” Vincent called out. “What if you want to use her to get yourself pardoned?” Orm didn’t have time for this bullshit.

“Because I love her!” he yelled. “Because she is everything to me and I won’t stand by while they execute her. I can’t go back, no one will believe me if I say she is innocent, I’ll just get thrown in a cell next to her, but my brother is king. If I am able to get proof to him he can set this right.”

Aria watched his speech and nodded before motioning for him to come with her. She lived only a few houses down from the café and she also had a bag full of letters. She kept meticulous records and correspondence, including from Hendrix. Hours later she jumped up.

“I found something,” she said, setting the letter down in front of Orm at her kitchen table. By then everyone had joined them, watching. “This is from Hendrix, the day before the coronation. I think I received it by mistake. I never read it because well, I hated Hendrix and anything he had to say was worthless to me.” She pointed to a spot that clearly incriminated him.

“These people are idiots. They’re going to give me the crown and not even realize it. Tomorrow Orm will be dead and I’ll be king,” Orm read. This was perfect.

“Bless that asshole’s giant ego,” muttered Amanda from the couch. Orm stood and hugged Aria.

“I know you hate me but thank you,” he said. He looked between her and Dean. “I am sorry for the tidal wave, for everything. I was wrong and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for it.” He left it at that, hurrying out of the house and calling Arthur to tell him he had proof.

#orm marius #king orm #ormmarius #orm marius x reader #king orm x reader #kingorm #ormmariusxreader #kingormxreader #ormseries3

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polycraftory · 17 days

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Here is our complete guide to curling a heat safe wig!

We specifically figured out this method worked best when styling this wig for my level 3 Imogen Temult cosplay. She's from campaign 3 of Critical Role. There are many other methods to curl wigs, but this is the one that got the best hold and our desired look on this particular wig! Of course, then I decided to cosplay Imogen at level 13 first and her hair is totally different so this wig is going in storage but at least we got to make a useful tutorial first.

We already have a video version of this tutorial up on our Tiktok and Youtube that we will move over to Tumblr, but honestly I struggle The Most with learning from video tutorials. I prefer things written out so we wanted to make this sort of tutorial as well for accessibility!

Additional tips & all of the products we use are under the cut. Feel free to shoot us a message if you have any questions or want more tutorials on wigs!

What We Use:

Wig: Pastel Purple Wavy Lace Front Synthetic Wig LF5110 from Wig Is Fashion. It technically comes with a curl but we straightened and recurled it differently. Whatever wig you get, just make sure you check that it's heat safe before attempting this!

Silicone Spray: Mane 'n Tail Detangler. Yes, this is technically for horses, but listen, it works SO WELL on synthetic wigs. It keeps it from getting all static-y and tangled. We've only ever used this brand but it works really well so we're def sticking with it.

Setting Spray: Schwarzkopf Got2b Glued Blasting Freeze Spray. This makes sure the curls you spent hours making actually hold!

Crimper: SixRiver Ceramic Waver Hair Tool with 4-in-1 Flat Crimping Iron Plates. This comes with four ceramic crimping plates and Nic uses the one with the "most wiggles" on the lowest setting (320). You can probably use any crimper that goes low enough. Crimp it fast, you aren't holding it like with curls.

Curling Iron: Conair 1 Inch Curling Iron. We use this on "19", whatever that means because it doesn't actually have temperatures. Any curling iron with low enough heat settings will do, you might need to play with settings to make sure you don't melt the hair. Test it on the bottom of the lowest layer of hair where you could cut it off if you melt it. As with curls on human hair, different barrel widths will give you wildly different curl looks.

Teaser Brush & Large Tooth Comb: Honestly these probably came with one of our first hair cutting or wig styling kits so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Apparently the teaser brush is Revlon branded.

We aren't sponsored by anyone, this is just what we use! Feel free to substitute in anything that you have / know works well with wigs. We hope this helps! Please let us know what other cosplay or crafting tutorials you'd like to see <3

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pitviperofdoom · 1 year

Note

PITS JONGERRYS LETS GO

Uhhh uMMMMMM URBAN FANTASY JONGERRYS

Things had escalated. With Gerard Keay involved, that meant something inevitably wound up on fire.

The initial blast took out two of Jon’s attackers and threw the rest into confusion. He was already running the second he was free, reaching out blindly until Gerard found his wrist. Without a word, his bodyguard shoved him to the front and sent another fireball into the cultists behind them. The flames, as always when they came from Gerard, burned hot and spread fast. The resulting confusion left their pursuers in disarray, but the spread of the flames cut off their exits as thoroughly as the cultists’ pursuit.

In the end, their only recourse was to flee deeper into the Rayner compound, away from the screams and shouts of their would-be captors.

Jon kept his mouth shut, breathing deeply and evenly as Gerard hurried him along. He was getting used to running, he thought wryly. Less than a year ago he would’ve been gasping and staggering after the first three hallways, but now his breath came easily, and he barely registered the burn in his legs until they finally came to a halt.

A spacious storage closet served as a temporary refuge; the closet itself was dark and unlit, but a small window at Gerard’s eye level provided him with a vantage point. Jon leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

“Lost them for now,” Gerard murmured. “Won’t matter much if we can’t get out of here.”

“Mm.” Jon let out a long, slow breath. “I think it’s safe to say that relations between Elias and the People’s Church have thoroughly broken down.”

“Long time coming, if you ask me. Mum always says Rayner’s lot don’t want anything less than total dominion. So alliances don’t tend to—”

Abruptly he went still and silent, ducking away from the window. Footsteps rushed past outside; a shadow fell over the dim beam of light that leaked through. Jon didn’t dare move. Eventually, after a few heart-pounding seconds, the figure outside moved on and joined the rest of the cultists searching the building.

The silence lasted nearly two full minutes before Jon built up the nerve to speak again. “Gerard?”

A soft sigh emanated from the darkness. “Thought I told you to call me Gerry.”

“I… haven’t forgotten,” Jon replied. “Gerry, then.”

The name felt uncomfortable on his tongue, even with permission. It held meaning, he knew. Gerard—Gerry had thrown it out in an off-hand manner, but Jon didn’t need to be a seer to sense the weight in that request. It wasn’t just a preference; it was an offer of trust, a wall coming down, a privilege that Jon had somehow earned, entirely without meaning to, without offering anything in return.

“I’ll follow your lead,” he said.

Gerry’s face hovered into the light again, casting sharp shadows over his features. “Not quite good enough.”

“What?”

With a sigh, Gerry let his eyes slide shut. “There’s too many of them. If we make a break for it, they’ll run us down, overwhelm us with sheer numbers.” His eyes opened, focusing on Jon. “You’re fast. A lot faster than you used to be, at least. All you need to get away is a diversion.”

“I don’t like where this is headed—”

“I’ll be fine,” Gerry said calmly, with a roll of his eyes. “And most importantly, you’ll be fine. You’ve got the easy bit. All you have to do is run fast until you’re out. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He reached for the door handle. Jon got there first.

***

Jon’s hand closed around his wrist, tight enough to make his fingers tingle. Gerry jerked back with a surprised hiss, but Jon refused to let go.

“Gerry, stop,” he hissed. “It won’t work.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” It was getting a little harder to keep his voice steady. Sure, his chances were slim, but that was nothing new. Slim chances were his baseline.

“No, listen to me,” Jon gritted out, yanking him away from the door. “It won’t work. There are too many of them and they’re spread out through the building. No matter where, when, or how you try to make a stand, I won’t even make it outside.”

Conviction rang in every word, bringing Gerry up short. He looked back; in the dim light through the door’s small window, he could see the set of Jon’s face.

“Trust me,” Jon pleaded. “I know.”

Gerry’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know? I didn’t see you swooning over a vision.”

“Think of something else,” Jon told him.

“Jon—”

“The longer we take to decide, the more everything shifts,” Jon snapped. “Think of something else.”

“Fine!” Gerry thought quickly. “It’s a straight shot to the east entrance from here—”

“Won’t work,” Jon cut him off. The light from the hallway struck his eyes, setting them aglow. His pupils, no longer light-absorbing black, flashed like a cat’s in the dark. “It’s too narrow—no escape routes. It’ll funnel us straight to them. Try again.”

“South, then. It leads to the warehouse—there’s plenty of places to hide.”

“The mezzanine’s already packed with armed cultists,” said Jon. “It’d be like running into a firing squad.”

“If we go further down—”

“No way out, and… there’s something down here.” Jon squinted and grimaced, free hand flying to his forehead as if in sudden pain. “I can’t—I can’t quite get the shape of it.”

“Then… up…?”

Jon blinked. “Keep going.”

“What?”

“Upstairs, then what?”

Gerry thought for a moment. “Head to the roof, take the fire escape down.”

“Fire escapes aren’t maintained, they won’t hold both of us,” said Jon. “Try again.”

“Not the roof, then. Out one of the windows. I can climb and carry you.”

“You—” Jon blinked, his strange eyes widening. “Huh. So you can.”

“Are we good?” Gerry asked.

“Wait.” Jon’s eyes flickered again, before he squeezed them shut and came back into himself. “Christ. Car park on the west side of the building. There’s a blue sedan with keys on the center console.”

“Okay.” With one last look out into the hallway, Gerry reached for the door handle. There would be time for questions later, and Gerry had many. “Get ready to run.”

***

“Want to tell me what that was about, then?”

Jon’s hands barely shook. It was a bold move, starting an interrogation when Jon was the one applying gauze to a bullet graze Gerry couldn’t reach himself. “Depends on what you want to talk about—”

“Don’t.” Gerry’s voice brooked no argument, barely stuttering even as Jon pressed a disinfectant-soaked pad to the gash over his shoulder blade.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jon insisted. “I’m a seer. You knew that when Elias brought you on. Why are you so disconcerted over watching me see the future?”

“Because you’ve been holding out on me, Sims,” Gerry said mildly. “Holding out on him too, seems like. Does Elias know you can do that? Just peek into the future of your own accord, instead of waiting for it to creep up and pounce?”

Jon sighed.

He didn’t say anything after sighing, but he did continue to patch up Gerry’s wounds. Gerry sat patiently, holding still even as Jon’s ministrations stung his torn and scorched skin. He could be patient. Once Jon was done, he wouldn’t have an excuse to hide behind anymore.

“I’m not stupid,” Jon said. “Or naive, or sheltered. I don’t know why you thought I was when we first met.”

“You’re not my first bodyguarding gig,” Gerry told him. “In my experience, anybody who gets as petulant about being protected as you were is usually naive and a bit stupid. And after that stunt you pulled with Jude Perry, you can forgive me for coming to a reasonable conclusion.”

“That wasn’t stupidity or naivete,” Jon said primly. “That was recklessness. Learn the difference.”

“Jon.”

“I just mean—I know how people see me,” Jon went on. “What they usually want from me. It happened back when I was a kid, before my grandmother stopped letting me talk about it. Everyone wants to know something about the future, even if they think they don’t. I’m a useful tool for some, a deepest wish for others. I’ve been hiding what I am since I was a child. And when Elias identified what I was in spite of my best efforts… I thought it best to keep hiding what little I could.”

“Like having control over your own power.” Gerry’s eyes narrowed. “But you work for him. Being a seer is literally what he pays you for.”

“But I don’t know why.” Jon finished fussing over his wounds and stood back. “He pays me a wage plus a bonus for every vision I report to him, but I don’t know what he’s getting out of any of it. He’s looking for something—I know he is. I just don’t know what.”

“If you don’t know what he wants from you, but you don’t trust him enough to ask, then why stay at all?” Gerry asked. “I’ve seen your paycheck, and it’s not that good. Why do you still work for him?”

Jon moved to the sink, where he washed his hands with the methodical care of a surgeon about to walk into an operating theater. Gerry was halfway through putting his shirt back on when Jon finally replied.

“Because I haven’t found a path to quitting that doesn’t end with Elias killing me.”

Gerry froze, his shirt still rucked up over his chest.

“I’d been working for him for about… six months? When I finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t comfortable.” Jon returned to the kitchen table and sank back into the chair beside Gerry. “I didn’t think much of peeking ahead, so to speak. Elias just struck me as the sort of boss who would take a resignation personally, and I wanted to know what I’d have to deal with.” He took a deep breath. “Turns out, what I’d have to deal with was Elias coming into my home and beating me to death in a staged burglary gone wrong.”

Gerry gripped the edge of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

“I-I went through as many possible exits as I could think of,” Jon went on. “Moving wouldn’t help. Neither would changing my number, ghosting him, stringing him along to keep him from realizing I was quitting—nothing. If I try to quit, he’ll kill me. And I don’t know why.”

He stopped, steadying himself. “All I can do is just—linger. Be as useless as possible. Try to figure out what he wants from me. I-I keep checking, every now and then. Cycling through possible resignation methods. I’m—” HIs voice caught. “I’m quite sick of watching myself die, as you can imagine.”

“Can’t you use your sight to figure out what he wants?” Gerry asked.

“No, it’s—it’s not that simple, it’s—a question like that is too vague.” Jon paused, looking thoughtful. “Did your mother ever teach you about probability?”

Gerry gave him exactly the look that question deserved.

“Right, didn’t think so. Here—here’s an incredibly simplified demonstration.” Jon reached across the table and snagged a legal pad. “Right, so—imagine you’re trying to pick an outfit for the day. And you have… two pairs of trousers, three shirts, and four pairs of socks. So you start with picking the trousers.” Turning the pad sideways, he started on the left and drew a sideways V, the two branches spread wide, nearly spanning the width of the page. “These two points are your two choices of trousers. From there, you pick a shirt. Both choices of trousers can then go with three possible shirts, making six outcomes in all.” From the end of both branches, he drew three more branching lines. “And from there, you choose socks—so each of these six shirt-trouser combinations have four further possibilities for socks.” He continued drawing until the diagram resembled a sideways skeletal tree with twenty-four branches at the end. “And you can continue this ad nauseum—you’ve got three possible pairs of shoes, five possible hats, two possible pairs of gloves, and so on and so forth.” Before long, the entire page was filled with simplistic tree branches, uneven and crowding each other on the page. “Following me so far?”

“Yes?” Gerry said dubiously.

“This is, once again, an incredibly simplified version of what the future is like,” Jon explained. “It’s not a straight path. There are countless possible outcomes for every single—well. Everything. You make different choices to go down certain paths, and the choices available to you depend on random chance and the choices of the people around you, who are also living in their own tangled probability trees.” He tapped the scribbly mess on the page with his pencil. “When I use my sight of my own accord, that is what I see.”

Gerry stared down at it. “Huh.”

“The trick I pulled in the Rayner compound was… simpler than it could have been,” Jon went on. “It’s easiest to see what’s straight ahead, because that puts me back here—” he tapped at the single point on the left side of the page, from which the rest of the branches originated. “Because I can focus on myself, and my own choices, and the number of possible outcomes are slightly more manageable. The present and immediate future are always the easiest to deal with, because whenever I choose a particular branch, the rest of them… wither away, so to speak, and all the tangled might-have-beens that grew from them disappear. It frees up my attention.”

“So it’s difficult to figure out what Elias wants from you because… you don’t know how to find the right branch?”

Jon nodded. “I don’t know how to find the path that leads to him telling me.”

“Do you know what happens if you tell him the truth about your abilities?”

“I looked, once,” Jon replied. “Not for very long. None of the outcomes I could find involved him letting me outside ever again.”

“Fuck,” Gerry breathed out. “You realize you’re taking a huge risk by telling me, right? For all you know, I could take this straight to Bouchard.”

Jon’s eyes flickered again. “I’ve yet to find a branch where you do.” Gerry snorted. “And besides that…”

His scarred hand came to rest over Gerry’s. By some miracle, Gerry managed not to jump.

“We’re in this together,” Jon said. “We’re both stuck, and I’m relying on you just to keep breathing. You’ve been—good. To me. So far. You’re no friend of Elias, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not,” Gerry said firmly.

“Maybe it is a risk,” said Jon. “But I’m just—tired. I’m trapped either way, and the closest I have to company I trust are the infinite possible future versions of myself, who I can only observe and learn from. To tell you the truth, I’ve been getting a bit lonely.”

“Bit sad, that.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither of them pulling away from the other’s touch. Gerry stared at the hand over his own through half-lidded eyes, wondering what would happen if he turned his over and held Jon’s properly. For a split second he wished he could peek ahead.

“Hey Jon?”

“Yes?”

“What happens if—” He faltered for a moment. “What happens if I’m with you when you try to leave?”

“Hm.” Jon’s eyes flickered for a moment.

Without warning, they flew open wide.

“Jon?” Gerry asked nervously.

“I…” Jon’s throat bobbed. “Sorry, that—that just opened up an entire dimension of branches that I didn’t even—” His eyes flicked from side to side, as if the entire tree of fate was sprouting and growing before him, and he could only take in a few branches at a time.

“Talk to me,” said Gerry.

“There are—a lot more answers to that question than I realized,” Jon said. “Still a lot of ways to die, but—not as immediate. There are more branches ahead, I can’t quite…” He seemed to catch his breath. “I have to think about this. But…” The strange light in his eyes went out, and he turned to look at the Gerry of here and now. “Would you do that? Are you sure?”

Gerry took Jon’s hand and squeezed. The outcome, it turned out, was Jon’s wide eyes locking on his face, and the faintest hint of a blush creeping over Jon’s skin.

“Yes.” He wondered how many paths vanished when he made his choice.

#jongerry #jonathan sims #gerard keay #the magnus archives #tma fic #fanfiction #tales from the pit

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vodika-vibes · 5 months

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You ask for Dogma? You get Dogma!🥰 May I pretty please request a steamy Ruby Dogma x female reader scenario where the reader is Dogma's girl and she just can't have him looking so gorgeous and being so sweet without giving him a reward, so she pushes him into a supply closet, making out with him and gives him a bj in between giving him lots of praise? Dogma deserves more love! Please set it in Autumn.❤

Defying Gravity

Summary: Dogma has been dating his girlfriend for several months, and he’s never been happier.

Pairing: Clone Trooper Dogma x F!Reader

Word Count: 966

Prompt: Ruby - Passionate Love

Warnings: Smut, oral M recieving

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: So I changed the prompt just a little bit, to make it flow a little easier, but I hope you don't mind! Thank you for your request!

Dogma releases a quiet groan as his back bumps into the wall of the storage closet. His arms are firm around his cyare, and her lips are locked against his. His hands tangle in her hair, firmly taking a handful of hair and using it to tilt her head back so his lips are able to trail to her throat.

“Not that I’m complaining,” He rasps against her throat, “But kriff, cyare, what brought this on?”

She laughs breathlessly, her soft fingers gliding through his cropped hair, “I saw you looking so adorable and I couldn’t help myself. Do you mind?”

“If I ever say yes, you need to bring me to Kix.” He replies, his head lifting just long enough that he’s able to lock his gaze with hers, before his lips are back on her throat. He impatiently tugs the collar of her uniform open giving him more access to her soft skin.

Soft skin that’s practically begging for him to mark it.

She gasps as he bites down on the junction of her shoulder and neck, and then he kisses the sore spot with an adoring kiss. “Dogma,” His name is little more than a moan on her lips and Dogma can’t help but tighten his grip on her hips. “Had a plan.” She manages to get out before his lips catch hers.

“Did you?” He murmurs against her lips, “Tell me.”

“Was…” Her words are cut off by a soft moan as he catches her lower lip between his teeth and nips very gently.

“Was?” He prompts, a grin on his face. Dogma knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly what makes his cyare tick.

“Blowjob,” She gasps out as his hands drift lower to tightly squeeze her ass, “Was going to give you a blowjob.”

Dogma pauses and blinks at her, genuinely surprised at her words. Surprised that his normally shy girlfriend would even consider such a thing while they’re both meant to be working.

“You don’t have to,” He finally says, “I’m more than happy with this-”

She catches his lips in a deep kiss, and Dogma releases a pleased groan when he feels her tongue sliding against his. “I want to,” She whispers as she pulls back just enough to talk.

Then she’s taking a step back to give herself some space and slowly sinks to her knees. Her fingers sure as she unfastens his codpiece and adjusts his blacks so that his half-hard cock bounces free.

She looks up at him through lowered eyes, “Do you not want?”

“Not wanting is not the problem,” Dogma replies wryly as he smooths his hand over her head, a heavy breath falling from his lips as her fingers wrap around his length and she gives him a hesitant stroke.

It doesn’t take very long before he’s rock hard, And it takes everything in his power to keep from thrusting into her hands, more than happy to let her take control, since that seems to be what she wants.

A low groan falls from his lips as she wraps her lips around the head of his cock and sucks gently, “Kriff, cyar’ika-” Dogma’s head falls back against the wall as pleasure washes through him at her actions.

He’s pretty sure she releases a quiet giggle, though when he lifts his head to check on her, she seems to be completely focused on taking as much of him in her mouth as she can manage.

It might very well be the hottest thing he’s ever seen her do.

His head falls back against the wall again and he bites his lower lip to stifle his moans, it definitely wouldn’t do for him to get caught with his cock down the throat of one of the IT girls.

That’s not a scolding that he wants to have to deal with today.

His cyare finally starts slowly bobbing her head, slowly taking more and more of him into her mouth, and Dogma can’t help but trail his hands over the top of her head and across her face, quiet praise falling from his lips as she settles into a comfortable rhythm.

It never takes long for him to fall apart when she has him in her mouth, and today is no exception. His hand curls into her hair and he shallowly thrusts into her mouth once, twice, three times, and then groans quietly as he spills his release into her soft and warm mouth.

He watches as she swallows every drop of his cum, even though he knows that it’s not her preference, and then she smiles up at him shyly. Dogma slides his fingers down her cheek, and then gently encourages her to her feet.

“Thank you, cyare.” He murmurs as he kisses her very gently, a pleased hum falling from his lips as she carefully tucks him back into his blacks and reattaches his codpiece to his armor.

She shakes her head, “Don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to thank you,” He corrects as he bumps his forehead against hers, “It was a very nice surprise.”

Her smile is soft and shy, “Was told by some of my coworkers that I needed to give you more blow-jobs or you’d leave-” She admits quietly.

“They’re dumb as a box of rocks,” Dogma interrupts with a grin, “I don’t care if you never give me another one. I’m not going anywhere, not unless you ask me to.”

Her smile broadens, “Love you, Dogma.”

He presses a feather light kiss to the tip of her nose, “Love you too.” One more light kiss, “But we should probably go before we get caught.”

She giggles and nods, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“It’d take an act of God to stop me.” He promises, and she giggles again.

#star wars #tcw #vodika-vibes 500 followers celebration #clone trooper dogma x reader #dogma x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #18+ fic #nsft #answered asks

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star-anise · 2 years

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Speaking of potatoes and fantasy worldbuilding and the impact that they have on a culture: You discussed how potatoes free a society from a lot of things that grain imposed. Including how potatoes are pretty much ready to cook/eat right from being grown. That had me wondering about potatoes in various worldbuilding projects which leads me to this: Is it as easy to turn a potato into a food item that will keep, potentially for months or years, as one can with wheat (see: Hardtack/etc, for an extreme example). Or is that actually an advantage of wheat over potatoes? Because your post kind of makes it sound like once a society gets potatoes, why would any peasant choose to keep growing wheat? Or is that the point, they really *wouldn't* choose to keep growing wheat?

I think modern society's uses of the two are pretty good illustrations. We like wheat, and we also like potatoes! Bread, but also french fries! Beer, but also vodka!

So it's not always an either/or choice: Homesteads that grow for their own tables tend to have their fingers in a lot of different pies, like livestock, dairy, poultry, field crops, fruit trees, and vegetable crops. This is partly an insurance policy: If one crop doesn't make it, maybe another will. Maybe it rains so hard your potatoes all rot in the ground, but your wheat finds a way to survive—or the storm is so violent your wheat is all flattened in the field, but your potatoes were perfectly fine.

But there's also the part where we humans tend to like variety in our diets, which is partly physiological (we need a lot of different vitamins and minerals, and which ones we need can shift with the circumstances) and partly psychological (because we can get really tired of having to eat the same damn thing over and over and over. Yes, samefood crew, we exist, but we're also statistically rare.)

But if you had to choose: If you intend to eat what you grow and you've got limited land and equipment, potatoes are the hands-down winner. It's really easy to plant a pound of potatoes and get five pounds back at the end of the season. Depending on storage conditions, you can keep them for several months.

However, if you want to earn your living by selling your crop for cash, it's a little more complicated. Potatoes, though lovely, are also demanding; they are prey to literally dozens of problems that range from "potato is being eaten by an insect" to "potato is being eaten by a fungus" to "potato did not get enough water" to "potato got too much water." Even when your potatoes are technically edible, they might end up harder to store, harder to turn into food, or just plain ugly, which makes people less likely to buy them.

Also, and maybe this is just my personal perception from trying to pick three acres of potatoes by hand when I was 13, harvesting potatoes is a pain in the ass. They grow down in the dirt, so to get them out again, you have to physically dig them up and shake them apart from chunks of earth. I've never harvested grain by hand so maybe I'm just ignorant, but to me that's a lot of bending, kneeling, crouching, and scrabbling through the dirt. Like, harvesting 1 potato plant? Delightful search for buried treasure. 10? Wipe sweat off your brow and feel very satisfied with yourself. But the year I was 13 we harvested at least 100 potato plants. It was the year we studied the Russian Revolution in school and I felt the peasants had a definite point.

(And then they weren't good enough to be sold as food crops. They stayed in our garage, a giant pyramid touching the roof, for half the winter. We ate potatoes every single day until my brothers campaigned for an end to it. My parents donated 10,000 lbs of potatoes to the local food bank and my dad bought a potato picker at an estate auction the following year.)

Wheat does not make a great home-consumption crop these days, since it takes a lot of work to process into flour. In the last decade I've seen some affordable home flour mills, and if you have a combine harvester that's actually doable, but when I was a kid, the nearest flour mill to us was 1000km away. Without a combine, you still need to thresh and winnow the grain. It's a whole thing.

On the other hand, if you have the tools and facilities to process it, wheat is generally simpler to grow, easier to transport and sell, and the straw it leaves behind* is a useful byproduct. And while I do love eating potatoes, and you can technically make cake and bread out of them, I, like much of the rest of the world, prefer to eat things made with wheat flour, and am also fond of other grain products like rolled oats, rye bread, and multigrain bagels.

(*Sidenote: Straw and hay are different things. Straw is the stalk of grain like wheat or barley. It has minimal nutritional value and is used for bedding and insulation. Hay is a nutritious blend of cut grasses and plants that are fed to farm animals instead of, or in addition to, access to pasture they can graze in. In case that's useful.)

In British history there IS a whole huge thing with the Agricultural Revolution where land use transferred from smaller peasant farmers growing food for themselves, to larger farmers growing cash crops to feed a mostly-urbanized population, which was part landlords kicking people off their land so it could be used differently, and part peasants seeing factory jobs in the city as a welcome escape from the backbreaking labour of farming. While I think the landlords shortchanged their former tenants, and the urban factory owners were horrible to their workers, I think we also need to remember that the peasants who said "Fuck this hoe, I'm off to town" had a very valid point.

#agriculture #medievalism #staranise original

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cloudwhisper23 · 6 months

Text

Grumbo Month! Another day from the list that @grow-bettah created for this lovely event.

Day 5: Candlelit Dinner

Grian had laughed when he saw what Mumbo had set up for them. His red sweater was covered in moss and stone, and he had not dressed up at all. But that was okay. Mumbo had expected something like this, honestly.

Inviting Grian over wasn’t usually a formal event, after all.

Grian sat on the edge of his seat in the unfinished vault, poking at the candle on the table. He still had that amused smile on his face when Mumbo took his own seat.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Not at all. I’m laughing with you.”

“I try to do something nice for you, and you’re poking fun at it.” Mumbo crossed his arms.

“Oh, don’t pout. It’s nice, Mumbo. Really. But candles?”

Grian’s feigned ignorance of human traditions was really starting to become a problem. Mumbo’s cheeks burned as he opted not to reply.

Finally, finally, Grian inspected the meal. “Mumbo. This is soup.”

“Mhm.”

Grian prodded the bowl skeptically. “Who did you get this from?”

“Pearl.” Mumbo replied, wearily. “Why?”

“Mumbo.” Grian’s feathers twitched. “Do you know what Pearl has been up to this season?”

“Not really.”

“Ah, okay.” Another pause. “Did you tell her what the soup was for?”

“I did.” Mumbo forced himself to meet Grian’s gaze as he replied. “You know, typically it isn’t embarrassing to go on a date with your boyfriend.”

“We’re sitting in a half-finished vault in the middle of the night. There’s no torches, only one candle, and you had Pearl make the soup.” Grian shook his head. “Mumbo, if that’s not embarrassing, I don’t know what is.”

“What’s wrong with the soup?” Mumbo pressed. “Seriously. You know something I don’t here.”

“We won’t know unless we eat it, unfortunately.” Grian shrugged. “Pearl is in the Soup Group. They were the resistance against King Ren.”

“Ah. So it could be poisonous.”

“Or completely harmless.”

“This was meant to be a nice dinner,” Mumbo said mournfully, looking at the soup. “Our first one since you got back.”

“You mean our first one since you got back. I was gone for a week!”

“Right. Yes.”

“Look, Mumbo. It’s not a big deal, really.” Grian scooped a large spoonful of the soup into his mouth. “It’s just a precaution- Whoa.”

Mumbo stood as Grian swayed in his chair, the feathers on the side of Grian’s head flicking out. “Grian?”

“Mmm?” Grian’s eyes were unfocused.

“You alright there mate?” Mumbo steadied Grian with one hand.

Grian turned to him and kissed him hard. Mumbo jerked back. Grian followed his retreat, curling his talons into Mumbo’s jacket to continue clinging to him.

“I think we know what the soup does now,” Mumbo said. “We need to get some milk into you.”

A quick trip to Mumbo’s storage room, and both of them were sitting on the floor. “So, there was definitely something weird in the soup.”

“Absolutely,” Mumbo replied, letting the bucket fall from his hand with a heavy thunk. “You were right to be cautious.”

“Yep.” Grian leaned against Mumbo’s shoulder. “It was a nice thought.”

“I wish it had gone better.”

“Mumbo.” Grian chuckled slightly. “You think drugged soup is enough to scare me off? Not a chance.”

“I know.” Mumbo tried to smile back. “I just wanted things to go well.”

“Yeah? We’re here, we’re together, and now we have a funny story to tell.” Grian sat up suddenly. “Let’s prank her back.”

Mumbo’s curiosity stirred at that. “Do you have a plan in mind?”

“No, but it won’t be too hard to make one. What do you say? Candlelit prank plotting?”

“Definitely better than the soup,” Mumbo agreed.

When Grian kissed him, Mumbo didn’t pull away. He pulled Grian closer, almost into his lap as he deepened the kiss.

Grian was the first to pull free from that one. “Right! Let’s get to work on a plan.”

“Of course, Grian.” Mumbo smiled.

Maybe it hadn’t gone so bad after all.

#grumbo month #grumbo #hermitshipping #grian #mumbo #cloud writes #it's a bit of a shorter one #established relationships are a bit more brief without the pining phase #at least they are when I'm writing them

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prinnamon · 1 month

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Hello! I saw your post about subtitling and fanworks other than fanart and fanfics and you mentioned being a subtitler yourself. If you’re okay with answering this could I ask how you started being a subtitler? (if that’s even how it works lol) I’m guessing it depends on what you’re subtitling but I’ve always super appreciated subtitles and the ppl that make them and think it would be fun to do

hope you have a nice day/night!

this ask sat in my inbox for a while because sadly my PC's power supply unit failed and made it less convenient for me to write lengthy posts. however! i'm back in the swing of things and im too excited to let it sit here any longer.

long post under the cut!

to start off, i wanna make it clear that what i do currently is write english-language subtitles for english-language content on YouTube! there is no translation involved. i'm not confident enough with any other languages to sub any other kind of content. so all the advice i can offer is gonna be related to my specific experience! (i'm learning that maybe i should have used the word "captions" instead of subtitles to eliminate confusion. you can tell i am an amateur and not a professional since i thought the words were largely interchangeable)

i started doing captions for fun several years ago as a fan of The Shrieking Wizard Co! that company/channel had an associated discord server, and there was a section for fans to submit captions for their videos using a service called Crowdscriber. i was not super good at it or familiar with any of the best practices at the time, but i could make out even overlapping voices pretty well and i had a lot of free time!

the SWC is no longer around as a company, but even before that i'd fallen off of doing captions for them since school started to eat up all my free hours again. recently, though, i picked the habit back up and started doing captions for a niche machinima series that a friend got me to watch! the first episode and a half already had captions, so i was dismayed when i realized the rest of the series lacked them. in a sort-of special feature video from a couple years back, the creator mentioned plans to enable community captions so fans could pitch in if they wanted! however, since then, YouTube has removed the community captions feature.* but the creator is still active and the series is still ongoing, and i figured i probably had the tools available to me to caption the episodes on my own. i reached out to ask if he'd like the help, and he said yes! so wahoo!

a lot of creators would probably be happy to accept volunteers to help them with captions. some larger creators may even be open to offering someone a paid job at it. the worst they can do is say no or not respond, so there's really no reason to be afraid of reaching out about subtitling one or more videos that mean a lot to you! sadly, this is not going to be as reliable for older stuff on abandoned channels. you may have the resources you need to subtitle something but no way to reach out to the creator so that your subtitle files can be uploaded and seen.

the first step of my process was to download all the episodes of the series that i wanted to caption! it's also fine to go one at a time if you lack the storage space, of course. i used VLC to download YouTube videos (check out this tutorial! it wasn't what i used at the time, but i think the one i did use is out of date and your odds with this one might be better!), but i know there are other reliable options out there.

YouTube's built-in caption/subtitle editor is pretty ass and not fun to work with! i find it frustratingly limiting. luckily, there are free programs which do it better. i've got decent experience editing videos, so the free version of the program DaVinci Resolve is my subtitle editor of choice since it feels very much the same as editing videos like i'm used to. i'd open it up and take some screenshots to show off the process, but my PC is currently not functioning. i will say that i found it pretty easy to muddle through after a couple basic "how to add subtitles in DaVinci Resolve" tutorials.

i still don't know if i'm the best person to give lessons on best practices for captioning, but here are some very basic guidelines i try to adhere to:

don't let captions take up more than two lines on screen at their standard size! three or more lines of captions cover a lot of what's happening on screen. there are times when it might be absolutely necessary because characters' lines are overlapping while other sounds are also occurring which are crucial to the viewer's understanding of the scene, and that's okay, but 3+ lines of captions should really be a rarity.

generally try to have one sentence on screen at a time! there are plenty of exceptions to this. for example, a character may utter several short sentences in a short amount of time (eg. "Yes. Okay. I understand.") which don't make sense to break up any further because the captions would be flashing on screen for such a short time, impeding readability. moreover, a character might say a sentence that needs to be broken up at a logical midpoint so it doesn't take up three or more lines on the screen.

preserve comedic and dramatic timing. sometimes the above rule must be sacrificed so that the punchline of a joke or the narrative twist of the knife is not revealed before it's supposed to be revealed.

sounds that characters acknowledge and react to, or which impact your understanding of the scene, should be represented with a caption. the audience probably needs to know about [distant gunfire] and [pained scream]. however, in a lot of cases, a sound is implied by what the audience can see or is unnecessary to their understanding of the scene. the audience probably does not need to be told that the door which they can see opening is making the sound that a door makes when it is opened. the audience can probably infer that the character who they can see walking is making audible footsteps. but then there are times when these sounds might be important because the characters comment on or react to them. it's situational. i say use your best judgment.

generally, above all, be courteous and remember that subtitles are a tool, and they're not something silly with. it's really not the place for jokes. it's more clear and useful when a gasp is captioned as [gasp] as opposed to [O_O] or [le terrified gasp]. it's more clear and useful to describe the sound of an airhorn as [airhorn] than to write [HOOONK!!!]. and please don't use captions for extensive easter eggs and inside jokes. like alt text, it's not a place to hide treats for people who click a secret button. it's an accessibility tool. (i'm pretty serious and passionate about this point, and i don't wanna see jokes about it in the reblogs or replies.)

if you can understand and transcribe what's being said, you Must do so accurately. this includes swear words. this includes slurs and disrespectful language and words and subject matters you're uncomfortable with. if you can't bear to type these things out, you're not the person who should be writing captions for this particular piece of media. if a hearing viewer can hear it, it must be captioned. deaf and hard-of-hearing viewers deserve to know exactly what is being said.

this page might be able to help you get started with some more specific professional guidelines! i disagree with some of these; for example, subtitling a foreign language as [speaking French] is really not ideal, because a hearing viewer who speaks French would be able to understand what was said, so you're giving the folks using the captions an incomplete experience. like i said above, if you can understand what's being said, transcribe it accurately.

YouTube accepts at least a few different file formats, including .sbv and .srt (if you're saving as an .srt from DaVinci Resolve, make sure to check ".srt Without Formatting"). proofread your work before sending it out/uploading it to catch surface errors! in fact, i recommend checking the captions in YouTube's subtitle editor by uploading them on a private video to see whether it throws up any errors at you or has any unintended formatting junk that you need to go back and eliminate.

i hope this was somewhat helpful and can maybe inspire you to go for it yourself! this mostly felt like me rambling about my personal experiences and opinions, haha. at the very least, if this didn't make any sense, maybe you can look at it and go "well if she's this incoherent and can still write captions/subtitles then certainly there's hope for me" lol. thanks for inviting me to talk about the thing i'm passionate about. it's a joy whenever someone asks me about this. i hope to get to do it as a job someday (though i'm not looking forward to when i inevitably have to caption somebody as [speaks Spanish] due to professional practices).

*i have heard from one or two folks that YouTube's now inviting viewers to contribute captions in a different way, by "providing corrections" to a video's auto-generated captions! even if this is true, i have to say it doesn't really excite me. in my opinion, trying to work around the automatic first pass is usually a worse experience than starting from scratch. the auto-generated timings tend to be really bad, usually not cutting naturally at the beginnings and ends of sentences, and that's ignoring the fact that auto-generated captions also censor swears and transcribe many things incorrectly. YouTube really should never have removed community captions. i hope they get brought back or replaced in a meaningful way

#prinna's posts #essay in chat #asks #soulsofthewicked #subtitles #subtitling #fan subs #fansubs #captions #captioning #<-tags so newcomers to my blog can hopefully find it more easily

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is-the-snake-video-cute · 1 year

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hey my snake makes hissing/sneezing noises frequently, and i just saw them wipe some kind of discharge from their nose. a bit of quick googling told me snakes do Not Cough Or Sneeze Or Have Snot, and that these symptoms are usually a sign of. some kind of problem. do you have any advice? is there anything i can do before a vet appointment to help him?

Yes, those are textbook signs of a respiratory infection. Respiratory infections can get very serious very quickly in snakes, so I absolutely recommend setting up a vet visit for your snake as soon as possible! Most snakes with RIs respond very well to a course of antibiotics.

Like I said, it's very important to get your snake to the vet as soon as possible when you notice RI symptoms, but there are a few things you can do to help them stay comfortable in the meantime:

Keep things as calm and quiet as possible. A stress-free environment will help your snake's body work on fighting the infection.

Increase their humidity. Regular misting and a humidity box (easily made by cutting a hole in the lid of a food storage container big enough for your snake to curl up in and filling it with damp moss) can help.

Taking your snake into the bathroom and letting the hot water run in the shower until it's nice and steamy can provide them with some temporary relief. Don't put your snake under the water, just let them be in the steamy room for a few minutes.

Once your snake is back home and on the mend, it's also important to consider the cause of the RI. For pet snakes, not all but many respiratory infections can be traced back to husbandry issues, so take a look at your setup and make sure everything's good. Most RIs in pet snakes are caused by too-low humidity, so make sure you're measuring the humidity in your enclosure with a good probe hygrometer.

All the best! I hope your snake feels better soon!

#not a rating #snake health #respiratory infections

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papaver-decervicatus · 1 year

Text

Teaser... + house keeping!

Wow, I am just besides myself with how amazingly receptive and welcoming everyone has been to my silly little König story. Reading in storage closets at work, affirming bass player fetishes, offering translation help, love of environmental descriptions (ah yes, ecphrasis, my love!) asks, comments, just generally such sweet things, it's been an absolute honor to read everything everyone has been saying here! I did want to briefly explain that since this is a side-blog, I will not respond to comments/tags directly because tumblr would make me do that with my main blog (which is related to people I know irl, and I love them but I do not want my roommate reading my COD smut...) but everything is read and deeply appreciated. Please feel free to send asks (messages are more difficult for me to answer in depth...) As for other house keeping, please please please have an age in bio, or some descriptor that you're of age in some way, also blank blogs are terribly suspicious, changing pfp and descriptions go a long long way! If you wish to be added to a taglist for Cat/Mouse/Den, please comment/reblog/etc this post so I can round everyone up! Anyways, a minuscule little treat for being such wonderful people :) Cura ut valeas~ Caedis

He’s a vision, he’s hard to miss on the horizon, he stands out like a mountain lion against his fellow men. He sways his hips wide, the trusty Glock Field knife he keeps on his belt shines like a beacon. It’s such an outrageously cocky move, to keep glinting metal on his person when she’s sure he’s supposed to be stealthy. He’s tall as a tree and broad as a train and always has some hood covering his face. He’s sniper candy, he’s so obviously right there it makes her dig blunt nails into her arm in frustration. He’s hard to miss, should be her straight shot.

But he never is.

She never gets the barked orders, the confirmation. She’s asked a hundred times. When it’s in the forest, it’s less warfare and more stakeout. She’s not paid enough to know what she’s looking for, but she always sees him. And she’s always been told not to shoot. She stops asking at some point, but like everything else with this man, she doesn’t quite remember when. Her life is a blur of missions and off time and him and nothing else.

It’s been months since the ravine and she’s seen König just about everywhere she’s been. When SpecGru was gathering intel on KorTacs drug affiliations, she saw him in the haunted deserts of Sonora, Mexico where she lies in the dirt redder than blood and coyotes sing her to sleep. She gazes down at him atop crumbling 16th-century Byzantine marble when she picks off the guards of a weapons supplier in Belgrade, Serbia. In the ancient and verdant bamboo forest of Yibin, China, hunting down spy affiliations, she camps across a creek from him for a night.

It’s a small world, but not quite small enough for her to believe just how they keep running into each other. No matter where she ends up, their eyes always meet.

The eyes of the apparition with bloody tears on top of an executioner's hood always flick right towards her, even when she’s under a ghillie or some camo or nothing particularly obtrusive at all. She’s even taken off her scope once or twice to reduce glare, to see if the monster still turns her way then. To see if the cat is following a laser pointer she’s unwittingly putting out.

He does.

He always finds her.

No matter what.

#caedis speaks #navigation -> Cat/Mouse/Den

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mugenloopdalove · 5 months

Text

I. Don't have the energy to make a full post so I'm just gonna copy the fic here bc I NEED an answer for why it didn't even get a like.

It's set in the shopkeep Theil au. I'll rb the post explaining the au too

There was never truly a “quiet” moment in the Corner Curios shop. Brimming with raw unfiltered magic, the legends that the shop itself was alive had real merit. Even into the latest hours, when the city was silent and still, it seemed like the shop was still as lively as anything. Rumors had spread all across Baldur’s Gate of seeing a book fly across to another shelf, or a broom moving on its own. Those more skilled in magic claimed you could see how the weave enveloped every inch of the shop. And with the strange, unspeakably powerful sorcerer behind the shop, any one of these rumors could be true.

Even dealings with devils.

There were days where the shop lights stayed on into the strangest hours, but the doors remained magically locked...

“...And it seems that the words creeping in the city’s deepest shadows, the daggers that shoot through the tongues of the snakes and urchins of the alleyways... is that our little legend has made some dealings with the devil on nights just like tonight, when their innocent establishment is shrouded in the secrets of midnight. I’m sure any devil worthy of their soul is rather dashing, wouldn’t you, Theil?”

Leaning against the doorframe of the storage closet, staring down the loiterer with an irritated grin, was the fabled shopkeep seemingly on everyone’s tongue. The tiefling’s face and general mannerisms were as well known as their outstanding customer service and endless selection, but few saw the true face behind Corner Curios.

“Well then, Raphael, my most loyal loiterer,” they replied with a sneer. “Surely you know one.” They stepped towards the table set in the corner of the shop and sat across from the devil, the tension between the two all but visible in their surroundings. The two held a firm gaze, the unspoken challenge handed out. The game had begun.

The silence is broken with the tiniest thunk as a rather large book was sent hurtling right at the back of Raphael’s head, making Theil break out into a fit of childish laughter.

“I see your sense of humor is as refined as ever, dear old shopkeep,” Raphael said dryly, picking up the book to examine it. “Ah, The Beginner’s Guide to the Arts. Don’t you think this is a rather childish simplification of things for someone as studied as The Sorcerer Who Would Become A Bard?” There was a heaviness to the title, one that led the tiefling to flick a small flame in his face as he laughed mockingly.

“That was a working title after a month of no sleep.” Theil hissed, cringing over the dumb joke they made after too much wine and not enough rest. “And it’s still better than any of your little ‘contracts,’ dear devil on my shoulder.” They got up to reach for a bottle of wine left on the counter with two golden glasses, as if prepared for the occasion. Too prepared.

The devil’s in the details.

“The daring shopkeep tried all to make the devil they knew all too well into but a distant memory, a speck on their otherwise undoubtedly flawless reputation free of any crime or harm, but their methods, as sad and as simple as the person behind them, are-”

“So are you going to drink the wine? Because if you’re going to keep going like this I might need both glasses.” Theil’s face remained stone cold, in no way humoring the theatrics that had already far outstayed their welcome.

“Do you truly think you can trick me into-”

“Do you think I’d waste vintage wine gifted to me by the friend of my enemy on trying to kill a fly that found his way through the window?” Theil bit back, huffing and taking a purposefully dramatic sip from their glass.

“Ah yes, that wizard you’ve cozied up to. Quite the choice.” Raphael paused before taking a drink of the wine, then stopped to look at it. “Right, it would be beneath you to sully this with poison. Your tastes are finer than that.” He leaned over the table a bit, grinning at Theil with a spark in his eye. “Still... quite the sordid tragedy you’re setting up for a love lost, isn’t it? I knew you weren’t beneath petty underhandedness, but you’ve set up a whole show for me to enjoy, haven’t you dear?”

“It would have been nice to know sooner that you knew the players, Raphael,” Theil looked out at the shop absentmindedly, reflecting on the “heroes” that had found themself tied up with the greatest villain they had known. Everyone wrapped around Reya as if she weren’t the most miserable, selfish, miserable person anyone could know. They knew she was using them all just as she had used Theil in the past. But they were going to get their revenge, one way or another.

“Now now, I’m not just another pawn you can set, my meddlesome friend. You know as well as I do that even information comes with a price.” A grin spread across Raphael’s face, his more devilish features starting to show as he leaned in even closer to the unamused sorcerer. “So what do you say? Be a good pawn and-”

Theil erupted in laughter, so strong a bookshelf shook on the other end of the room. They laughed for only a second before their expression returned to the scowl that was ready to chase the devil himself out with a broom. “Your sales pitch is still as appealing as hag water, devil,” they cut back, rising from their seat and sauntering toward the man in front of them. “I don’t need your help to set the stage, and I’m still making pretty good use of my soul.” They leaned in close to him, smirking as their faces were just about touching, focusing a bit of energy just to remind him of just how much their soul was worth. Of just how much raw magic they held that made the it worth so much. The game couldn’t end now, afterall. The winner wouldn’t be crowned today, or tomorrow, or ever. That was the fun of it.

Raphael, for once, was silent, until Theil pulled away with a victorious smirk. “Checkmate, old friend.” Theil said, secure in their victory for this round. “NIce try though, you almost won there. Maybe next time?” They hummed as they walked away, sorting shelves to seem busy. “Now, I’ll have to see you off. The show is about to start, and I doubt you can afford the front row seats.”

“I’m almost hurt. If you start having visitors, you won’t need me to warm your lonely nights anymore.” Raphael tried to wrap an arm around Theil, but found himself instantly shoved back by a gust of wind.

“That’s enough, don't you think? Or does the great devil Raphael not have other appointments?” Theil taunted, their temper finally reaching its limit.

“Right, right, I have far better things to do than humor your childish games any longer. Good luck with the show though, break a leg out there.” The friendly, familiar tone made Theil ready to attack again, but something stopped them.

“You’re wasting time now, devil. Just get a move on before someone sees you,” they said, voice ice cold.

“Very well, I’ll leave you to your miserable farce.” Raphael took a step with a superior grin. “And, Theil darling? Checkmate.”

Before the tiefling could fight back, Raphael was gone, and Corner Curios was silent again.

The shop was still.

The stage was set.

“Let the show begin.”

#gerard's diary

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kchasm · 2 years

Text

Ryu Number: Risto Mejide

Risto Mejide is a Spanish music producer, known also for his appearance as a judge on a number of reality talent shows. He's known for his harsh and caustic criticism, making him something like a Spanish Simon Cowell—

Okay, listen. I'm going to cop to this: I didn't know who Risto Mejide was a week ago and I still mostly have no idea. Everything in that last paragraph I got off a couple of Wikipedia pages. No, the reason you're seeing this Ryu Number post is because I played History Warriors, and by gum, I am going to wring this utterly minuscule drop of value out of that arid desert stone. I can't have suffered for nothing, right?

History Warriors is not a good game.

History Warriors is a fighting game in the sense that I Spy is a competitive activity—yes, that's true, but if it's the highlight of your local tourney it's a sign that something has gone terribly wrong.

The plot of the game is as follows: After the fall of Nazi Germany, Hitler was secretly tucked away into some sort of suspended storage. Now he's awake, and he's gotten access to time travel technology, which he's used to pull a number of famous historical characters (William Shakespeare, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, Joan of Arc, Che Guevara, Shaka, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Napoleon) to the present day with the end goal of irreversibly mucking up the timeline. Not exactly high lit, but as far as an excuse to get a bunch of disparate characters at each other's throats, it's at least more creative than another martial arts tournament.

Unfortunately, History Warriors—and I've said this already but it bears repeating—is not a good game. It's a bunch of free-to-low-cost assets compressed into a weeping mass by a developer, "Clipstories, Inc.," which is almost certainly just a handful of folks in Spain who know each other. Characters all have the same standard attacks—a high punch, a low punch, a high kick, and a low kick. There are special projectile moves but attempting to view the manual from the Steam page redirects to the game's official site (as much as anything about this game can be called "official"), which... doesn't exist anymore.

The computer-controlled characters do know how to use the projectiles, of course. The projectiles are, incidentally, completely unavoidable, too large to jump and too low to duck. Can you block? You can block. The input for blocking is also the input for backing up, which is a fighting game norm, except that in History Warriors when your character is moving backward they aren't automatically blocking, as far as I can tell, so effectively what happens when you press back is that your characters blocks for a second and then starts walking backward defenselessly.

(I freely admit I might be slightly wrong there, but like hell I'm going to go back and analyze the mechanics.)

When two characters' attacks meet—two characters hit each other at the same time, in other words—rather than the attacks canceling each other out, they both go through. This means that the victor of the round is essentially decided by which character has the longest limbs (balance is a thing that happens to other fighting games). A further hampering comes in the form of hitboxes that have been placed, to put it charitably, unpredictably. Often floating an appreciatable length off from the end of a fighter's limb, in fact.

My main strategy in beating this game was to get in my opponent's space first thing before they could start throwing their impossible-to-avoid projectiles and spam a kicking to the shins. It barely worked, but it worked enough that I could get through each playable characters' lineup of opponents... after a lot of game overs, anyway (you don't have to start from the beginning if you lose—thank goodness for small favors).

The worst offense, though, after all this, is that the game isn't even entertainingly bad. Sure, on the surface—and especially with its awfully silly concept—History Warriors seems like the type of Bad Video Game that'd be perfect for some streamer to make fun of playing for a couple hours. But with every character essentially an identical fighter save for reach and the quickness with which strategy devolves into slurry, the whole damn thing is just a slog.

To wrap up this thesis: History Warriors is a bad game, and I think I've made that as clear as I can. But this is the internet, and the internet is chock full of productions of terrible quality that don't deserve a critical haranguing, stories and games and songs and videos that might accurately be called flawed or even subpar, but which were put together by creators who, for what skill they lacked, worked with sincerity and a motivation sourced from the joy of creation. I firmly believe that that's admirable in its own way—that it's behavior that ought to be encouraged, even through the stinkers.

That said—

There is no universe where this was worth fifteen dollars.

...Oh, right, Ryu Numbers. Uh, when you beat the game with a character it turns out they can't go back to their original time, so you get a still image showing what they're up to in the present day. Lincoln runs for President again, Napoleon streams video games, Che's at Occupy Wall Street—it's all very uninspired. When you beat the game as Mozart, he ends up on a talent show with an MS Paint mic.

Copyright infringement is a thing that happens to other developers, so the judges are clearly identifiable as being from Got Talent España, the Spanish version in the Got Talent franchise. From the fourth season, it seems.

See? Same digs.

Admittedly, my knowledge of the Spanish language begins and ends at "biblioteca," but Wikipedia tells me that this judge lineup consisted of Risto Mejide, Edurne, Eva Isanta, and Paz Padilla, so barring it turning out, I don't know, this particular episode had a guest replacing him and I couldn't tell because I'm garbage at facial recognition or something, Risto Mejide has a Ryu Number of 2, or 3 if you don't like Minecraft.

You know what's worse? This is probably the quickest way to get to Che Guevara, too.

#Ryu Number #minecraft #minecraft (bedrock ed.)#cleopatra #history warriors #risto mejide #super smash bros. ultimate #mario #mario's time machine #mario's time machine (pc ver.)#wolfgang amadeus mozart

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happybird16 · 2 years

Text

Transplant

Levi Ackerman / Reader

Warnings: Grief, fluff, not much else

Summary: Change isn’t always a bad thing.

This is sort of a modern companion piece to Beloved Mother. (Plug Plug) 🤣

Thank you so much to my beloved beta @theferricfox 💕💕

Word count: 6.9k

Ao3 Link

Note: Yes, I like flowers. Also, you might want some tissues?

The metal step stool creaks in protest beneath you, whining and metallic, as you stretch to reach the next box. The cardboard is rough against your fingers, the papery material stiff and sturdy as you pull it forward on the overhead shelf. With a strained grunt, you pull the heavy box down, quickly descending the steps to plop it onto the carpet below with a thud.

“You okay?” Levi calls over his shoulder from the other side of the small closet. “We can switch jobs if you want?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Muscles,” you reply with a huff, crouching down to open the package. “Most of this stuff is mine anyways.”

The hangers clack, loud and plastic, against one another as he works his way through the top row. The bottom, much more easy to reach, metal beam is already bare, forcing him to finally bite the bullet and start the upper half. Socked toes curled into the carpet, Levi has to stretch up onto his tiptoes to reach the higher rack.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch?” you tease, watching his back stretch as he raises his arm high above his head. “That looks a little difficult.”

“Fuck you, you’re not much taller than me.” Pulling another hanger from the row, he asks, “What about this one? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it.”

Turning away from peeling open the box, your eyes almost burn at the sight. “Ew!” It’s an absolutely hideous ruffled zebra striped shirt, something an old lady would wear to church and think is ‘fashionable’. “When did I ever buy that? No. Donate.”

With a grunt, Levi throws the article to the quickly growing pile to his left. To his right is a much larger box, the bottom barely filled with clothes you're keeping, a mix of his and yours, still on their hangers. Once everything’s sorted they’ll be neatly folded, the hangers placed in a separate box.

The two of you definitely have way too many shirts. Even though your new place's closet is bigger, this was definitely needed.

“These are my books,” you note, finally pulling open the corners that had been folding the box closed. You hadn’t even bothered taping most of your stuff up when you’d put them into storage, probably a stupid move at the time but something you’re grateful for now.

“We’ll have enough space now that you can actually get a bookshelf,” Levi points out, wordlessly adding several shirts you wear often to the right pile.

“That’ll be nice,” you note excitedly. “I probably won’t keep all of these though.”

Shuffling through the box, you note just how terrible your taste in literature used to be. Some of this stuff has to be from middle school at least, trashy garbage romance books and well worn horror novels. The mangas are definitely a keep though, maybe some of the more tasteful romance books. Hmm…

Pulling what turns out to be most of the volumes, a mix of hard and soft back, free from the cardboard, you add them to your own donation pile. “These ones are definitely going.”

Eying the stack, Levi snarks, “I’m not sure anyone’s even going to want to buy Twilight. Even at a discount.”

“That’s fair,” you agree, pushing the mostly empty box into your keep pile, right next to several boxes of holiday decorations. “We should definitely remember to label these before we leave.”

“I’ll try to find a Sharpie once we’re done here.” Holding up a cute dark green dress, Levi asks, “What about this one?”

“Keep, definitely.” It even has a neat little brown belt to tie around your waist. You’ll have to remember to wear it sometime soon, you can’t remember the last time you did. Maybe on your next date.

Ascending the small step stool again, you grab the next box off the shelf. It’s a bit older, the cardboard a bit lighter and more feathery under your fingers. “I think this one’s yours.”

“Probably all trash,” Levi confirms distractedly, holding up an old shirt in front of himself to access it. It’s a well-worn band shirt, one you’ve never seen him wear, but it must have gotten some love at some point judging by how faded the design on it is. Miraculously, it ends up being a keeper.

“They're yearbooks!” You note excitedly, quickly shifting through the stack to find one from his high school years. Sliding out one with ‘06 embossed on the side, you grin wolfishly at your husband. “Ooh I get to see you all pimple-faced and lanky.”

“As if. My acne was never that bad.” Levi says, pulling an entire armful of his countless button-up shirts to fill the entirety of the keep box.

“Lucky.” If only your skin had remained clear throughout all that stress and drama. Paging through the laminated paper, you quickly find one with your husband on it front and center. There he is, stuck mid-air in a high jump, his hair a flying mess, his face twisted up in anger. One hand raised high above his head, the shot catches him just shy of making contact with the ball. “Ooh you were on the volleyball team?”

Pulling out a new box for the keep pile, Levi starts thoughtlessly, “For two years, I was a spiker -hey don’t flip through it! We still have so much to do after this!”

“But you look so cute!” you exclaim, pointing at the small square photo of his 10th grade yearbook photo. Drowning in all black, the scowl he has in it is almost identical to the one he’s giving you now. “You really have had that same haircut forever.”

Rolling his eyes, Levi decides, “We’re making a new pile, those are going in the garbage.”

“Not happening,” you chime, adding the stack to your mostly empty box of books. “They’re going on my new bookshelf too!”

Levi grunts, throwing another one of his old shirts into the donation pile. “Of course they are. I’m sure our friends will love to see them,” he grumbles.

“Hange will, at least,” you agree, shaking your head at the next shirt Levi holds up. There’s no doubt in your mind that the wild brunette won’t tease Levi endlessly with the new ammunition. Levi didn’t look too different in high school, but you're willing to bet both middle school and elementary would be a different story. If it weren’t for your husband's urgency, you’d be bouncing on your feet, eager to take a look right now. “Erwin knew you back then, right?”

“Mhmm,” Levi nods, “since middle school. If Kenny and Uri didn’t move to a nicer district, Eyebrows and I would probably never have met.” Holding up a shirt from an old favorite anime of yours, Levi works his finger through a tear in the sleeve, “This one has a hole in it, do you want me to try and fix it?”

“Nah,” you shake your head. New beginnings and at all that, you think, pushing the box of your old tiny Christmas tree to your left. “It was nice of Erwin to lend you his truck for the week. Saves us the money of getting a mover.” You probably could have hauled all of the boxes with several trips in your little SUV, but there’s no way the furniture could have fit. Levi’s Harley wouldn’t have done much to help either.

“Nice,” Levi scoffs with a dramatic sneer. “The thing was fucking filthy.”

“Well it is a truck,” you point out. “He mostly uses it to haul lumber, there’s no need for it to be tidy. Though, I'm sure he’ll appreciate the deep clean you did when we give it back to him.”

“Would have been nice of him to offer to help us carry all this stuff down the stairs, though,” you gripe, looking at the steadily growing stack of boxes on either side of the room. Given that the living room and bathroom are already boxed up too, the stacks piled up around the entryway, there’s going to be quite the trip ahead of you. Some of them are really heavy too. At least you only have to carry them down two stories.

“We don’t have that much shit,” says Levi, watching you pull several boxes from the lower shelves. “We can do it ourselves just fine.”

“Oh, so he offered then,” you state with a knowing smirk. Levi avoids your eyes in response and that’s all the confirmation you need.

Some of your old hobby stuff, probably not particularly useful now, donate. “Are you sad to be moving out?”

After glancing at his watch, Levi starts rapidly pulling hangers from above head. “Why would I be?”

“It was your first apartment!”

“I’ve had many apartments, this was just the first one I had alone,” Levi corrects over his shoulder.

“Still, that was a big step. It must be a bit sad to leave it behind.”

Levi only shrugs in response, pulling a sweater from the high metal pole and immediately throwing it to his left.

“Hey, Hange gifted that to you for Christmas last year!” you chide jokingly, eying the hideous sweater on the top of the pile. Levi’s friend -now yours- always revels in getting your husband the most hideous holiday items they can find, enjoying the dread and disgust on Levi’s face. You still remember the cackle they’d released when he’d opened the carefully wrapped holiday paper to discover two reindeer in a provocative position, displayed in finely woven, brightly colored yarn. “They’re going to be upset you threw it out!”

“They probably assumed I already did.” Not an incorrect statement.

“Ya’ know, for a first solo apartment, you sure lucked out!” you exclaim, pausing in shifting through a box of sewing supplies to watch your husband shuffle around. It’s so cute watching him stretch up onto his tiptoes. “It’s not often you see them with walk-in closets.”

“Luck,” Levi scoffs with a click of his tongue. “The previous places I shared with Erwin and Hange were shit holes. This place isn’t much better.”

“It’s nicer than the place I had before I moved in.” Though some of that may be the result of Levi’s obsessiveness. The little building near your old college had smelled like nothing but weed and mildew, no matter how much air you let in. The neighbors were much more obnoxious too, given the university nearby. “You hated the place, remember? The rent is even cheaper here!”

“I’m pretty sure the landlord is up to some shady shit,” Levi huffs, tilting a bright pink blouse towards you. “This place is probably just some money laundering scam.”

Nodding your head at the shirt, you laugh in response, “Money laundering? That sweet old man?” You highly doubt Mr. Pixis is up to anything untoward, other than spending too much time day drinking in gay bars.

“Sweet as a lemon,” Levi snarks with a roll of his eyes. “Plus, you know he was always shit at responding to repair calls.”

“That’s because he’s usually drunk,” you point out. “Well, I know I’ll miss it. I wasn’t here nearly as long as you, but we sure made some memories here,” you note, eyes sliding to the open doorway. In your soon-to-be-no-longer bedroom, there’s now just emptiness. The mattress and bed frame were the first things to go. It creates a sense of urgency, according to your husband.

Right behind that had followed the rest of your bedroom, both of your dressers emptied and sorted through before the sun had even risen above the horizon. The large wooden pieces of furniture themselves had been hauled over in the truck alongside the first set of boxes.

The emptiness both adds to your sorrow and builds your excitement. Moving is always an absolute pain, but not this time.

Levi grunts in response, “There’ll be new ones.”

“I still can’t believe we bought a house. A HOUSE!” you exclaim, happily bouncing in place on the carpet. You were probably a bit too loud, given that the neighbor above almost immediately slams on the floor.

Smirking at your abashed look, Levi snarks, “As if ruining our backs last night, sleeping on the bare living room floor wasn’t enough for that to set in.”

“The sale went through! We’d just gotten keys! I was excited! Besides, you agreed to it!” Still elated, it’s difficult to keep your tone hushed. The words end up more of a stage whisper. “It’s not like you didn’t spend all of yesterday scrubbing the place from head to toe.”

Rising from the carpet, you cross the room to press yourself against Levi’s back. Arms wrapping around his waist, your chin digs into his shoulder as you hug him close. In a soft murmur, you explain, “It just doesn’t feel real. We saved for so long… I know you're excited too. I saw you looking at paint colors the last time we were at Walmart.”

The place is perfect too. A cute two story with powder blue siding and big windows, in a nice safe neighborhood right by a school. A nice cookie cutter with 2,500 square feet and a half acre backyard, just for the two of you. Two bedrooms, two baths, complete with a master bedroom and a master bath. Enough space for all your stuff and then some. Room to grow.

There’s so much to be excited about! A big kitchen, complete with marble countertops and a center island. You want to put in one of those fancy overhead pot racks, right above the center island. And it’ll be nice to no longer park on the side of the street, dreading the day someone inevitably swerves and takes out your mirror. You're already reveling in having a nice warm garage to park in during the area’s snowy winters.

It feels a bit like you’ve just gotten married and are finally venturing off to start your lives together.

Against your chest, you can feel that his shoulders are tight. Far worse than its usual stiffness, his back is ramrod straight with tension. Headless of you invading his space, Levi continues to pull shirt after shirt from the rack. “It’s going to be a big change, that’s for sure.”

Trying to poke at his weak points, you goad, “I can’t believe we’re going to have our own washer and dryer. We won’t have to share with 50 families anymore!”

“That’ll be nice,” Levi answers distractedly. Compared to his exuberance when you’d been touring the place, his response is downright placid.

Now, that’s not the correct response. He seems far too tense, something is definitely off and you have a guess.

“Listen,” you start, swaying in the balls of your feet to rock his body from side to side. “I know you don’t like change. I know that you're stressed -I am too- and you want to get everything packed up and moved over today, but we don’t have to. Both of us took all week off to get settled in, we can take our time. It’s just past noon, let’s take a break and go get some boba at the cafe down the street. One last time?”

Finally, he stops working, sliding a hanger back onto the rack with a resigned huff. Levi sighs, leaning back into your embrace with a heavy shudder. “I know. I’m sorry if I’ve been curt-“

“You haven’t been-“

“-but there’s just so much to do still. I just want to get everything settled so we can get home already.”

Home. He’s already calling it home. The words make your breath catch, heart stuttering warm and fast in your chest.

“Okay. I understand,” you murmur calmly, smoothing your fingers across his stomach. You can’t disagree with his sentiment. There’s still so much furniture and yard equipment you’ll need to buy this week, not to mention unpacking. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Levi murmurs back, squeezing his hand around yours where it rests on his belly. “Let’s get back to work. We still have the kitchen to get to after this.”

Tilting your head back, you let out a dramatic groan. The thought of conquering the kitchen fills you with dread. It’ll be the last step, but probably the most difficult one. The amount of bubble wrap you’d bought was horrifying, and you have no doubt Levi will want to clean every dish and piece of glassware before wrapping them up. Not to mention all the baking equipment. Once you arrive home and start to unpack, he’ll probably want to clean them after too.

You have no idea how you're even going to begin organizing the contents of the fridge.

“Yeah yeah..,” you sigh, feeling Levi shiver as warm breath dusts across his nape. Before pulling away, you press a quick kiss to the fabric at his shoulder.

Plopping back down onto the carpet, you pull the next box in front of you. Some of Levi’s teapot collection, keep. “Do you want to have a housewarming party?”

“That’s an actual thing?”

“Yeah!” The next box is familiar, you don’t even have to open it before setting it aside. It’s your own set of yearbooks, alongside some family photo albums. Maybe you’ll need two bookcases.

“That just sounds like more work,” Levi points out. “Not to mention the mess.” You have no doubt he’s imagining the hurricane Hange always leaves whenever they come over.

“People bring you gifts, I think. That’d be nice.” The box behind the last is ancient, tucked in the furthest corner of the shelf, the cardboard so old that it’s lost most of its color. “This one looks really old, it’s almost falling apart,” you tell him over shoulder. Stretching to pull at the edges and shift it forward, the resulting spray of dust makes you cough.

“I’ll remember to clean up our storage more often,” Levi clicks his tongue, silver eyes worriedly watching you wheeze. “It could be from middle school. I have some old woodshop projects up there somewhere.”

“Woodshop?” you ask, remembering the odd mix of life-skill classes you were required to take when you were little. “What did you make?”

“A stool, I think? Maybe a birdhouse? There’s an old car in there somewhere. I won first place in the race with it. Erwin was devastated,” Levi explains, sounding far too proud.

“Really? So you’ve always been good with your hands?” The innuendo only earns you a stern glare from your husband.

The box is surprisingly light, compared to the rest of the ones in storage. It must be packed tight, though, because there isn’t even a rattle from it when you set it down on the carpet. Opening it, the sight makes you twist your eyebrows up in confusion. “Its… women’s clothing?”

“What?” Confused as you are, Levi quickly sorts the articles in hand and comes over. Looming over your sitting form, he stutters, “Oh -that -that’s my mothers old stuff.”

He plops down hard beside you, as if his knees had been weak, shoulder brushing your own. Pulling a bunch of carefully folded white fabric from the box, it unfurls to reveal itself as a white dress, the neckline decorated with a tight weave of lace flowers.

“Is this all you have left of her?” Levi doesn’t talk about his early childhood that often, only a handful of times over the years you’ve spent together. Having gone with him to visit her grave several times, you know that she died very young just from her gravestone.

Kuchel Ackerman

Beloved Mother

May 20th, 1973 - April 16th, 2003

She hadn’t even been thirty. Having been born on Christmas Day of ‘90, he’d been just shy of becoming a teen when he’d lost her. You wonder if Levi has even realized he’s older now than she’d been when she’d passed.

“Mhmm,” Levi confirms, running his thumb along the fine silk dress. The look on his face is tight, shuddered, but there’s a fondness dwelling deep in his eyes. Voice soft, he whispers, “I forgot I had this stuff.”

“There’s a photo album,” you note, cautiously pulling the thick leather tome from the box. Despite the weathering of the container, everything in it seems clean and as fresh as the day they were placed in here. “Do I get to see you as a baby?”

“Not exactly,” Levi says, picking up a small jewelry box from the far corner. Flicking the lid open, a soft musical sound grinds out from the wooden box, the sound would be a soft twinkle if not for the aged gears. Levi sighs long and hard at the sound, eyes fluttering as his shoulders sag at the familiar tune.

Opening it to the first page, what greets you is far from what you’d expected. You’d thought it’d be full of old Polaroids of Mama Kuchel and baby-Levi, all naked and plump and pink. Instead, the photo-sleeves are full of flowers, carefully dried and pressed for preservation.

“Flowers?” There's hundreds of them, slid into the sleeves of every page. The book seems to be almost full, every page teeming with petals of vibrant colors. Reds and pinks of every tone, vibrant yellows, stark pristine whites, rich blues and purples, all flanked with soft green leaves of varying shades.

She must have learned as she went, because the first few flowers -some daisies and red roses- are roughly pressed. Her technique quickly adapts as the pages pass, the dried petals becoming a beautiful display. Beside every one is the tight, sharp scrawl of Levi’s mother, her handwriting a bit smaller, but nearly identical to his own. She identifies each flower in her neat cursive, complete with a date, right beside its sleeve.

“She liked to garden in her free time,” Levi explains, tugging a pair of tiny pearl earrings from the twinkling jewelry box. He lifts them up, briefly perusing the studs before replacing them within the wood. A small chain follows, thin and fragile looking as it twines around his fingers.

“Didn’t you live in a small apartment on the East Side?” It’s the poorest neighborhood in the area, you know that. The most dangerous too, if the news is anything to go by. They’re constantly discussing shootings on that side of town, or outright thefts. Right outside of the old industrial district, the whole neighborhood is nothing but old brick buildings, still stained with smoke from the long abandoned steel mills.

Levi nods his head, explaining, “There’d been a small empty lot nearby. I think it was supposed to be a community garden, but no one else really used it.”

You hum in response, drinking in a page of beautiful striped lilies, white with pink and orange with purple. “Must have been nice to have it all for herself then.”

“She found it therapeutic, I think. I remember helping her dig holes when I was barely knee high.” Replacing the jewelry box with a quieting snap and lifting a hand, Levi gestures about the correct height off of the ground.

It’s hard to picture, given that you’ve only ever seen one photo of the woman, tucked into your husband's wallet beside your own. She looked like him, you remember, only with a softer face and longer hair. In your mind's eye, you try to craft the image of a little version your husband by her side, small and energetic, his cheeks dusted with dark soil. “You? Digging in dirt? I can’t even imagine you touching a worm.”

“I mostly just helped pull weeds. I actually enjoyed it -it was nice,” Levi says, scooting across the carpet to rest his front against your back. Curling an arm around your waist, he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Mom was always happy and smiling when she was there.”

He describes her so rarely, but when he does she always seems so soft and sweet. “I would have loved to have been able to meet her.”

“She’d have loved you,” Levi breathes with a soft hum, smoothing his fingers across your stomach in a soft beat.

Continuing to leaf through the pages, the sheer variety of flowers within sends you into a state of awe. Some are quite common, something you’d see in any forest nearby, but some you wouldn’t even be able to identify if not for Kuchel’s helpful labels. There’s some repeating, as if perhaps the first plant didn’t make the winter -judging by the dates- so she tried again. Despite being dried over twenty years ago, you can still smell them, a fresh new wave of sweet and natural perfume filling your nose every page turn. “She grew all of these?”

“Not exactly,” Levi states, “some of those were stolen from greenhouses.”

“Stolen?” Your shock must be blatant, because Levi barely manages to hold in a laugh, the sound coming out as an airy snort.

“Mhmm,” Levi confirms with a soft hum. “We’d go on the weekends. She’d pick flowers that she’d liked and tuck them behind her ear to take home. Sometimes she even grew the seeds from them.”

“That’s not stealing! I doubt the owners even noticed or cared.” you justify, leaning back into his chest. You enjoy feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest, the soft rumble of his voice against your back. “It’s disingenuous at best.”

With a fond smile, his eyes distant and the edges crinkled in joy, Levi continues, “It was always a thrill whenever we went. Our secret little heist that we always got away with.”

You can only imagine the adrenaline surging through his little body, the loud peals of laughter once they’d gotten away with their crime. “That sounds like so much fun!” You always loved when your parents did stuff like that. Something harmless, but meaningful. A memory to cherish. “She sounds like a great mom.”

“She was,” Levi fails to hide a sniffle, grey eyes a bit watery. As you turn to the next page, Levi jolts behind you, pointing towards the page. “That one was her favorite.”

It’s a giant, red flower, taking up an entire page all by itself. The trumpet shaped petals, all five of them, surround a long yellowish-peach pistil. “A hibiscus?” you note, reading the little label beside it. “Why?”

“She liked to swipe more tropical looking flowers, imagining that we somehow managed to go somewhere nice. They didn’t always take, most of them couldn’t grow here. That one, though, grew like wildfire. We had to build a little wooden trellis to help it thrive.”

Whenever he speaks of her, Levi always seems so happy. Somber, no doubt, but with a fond smile curving his lips and a bright shine in his eyes. He’s mentioned before that his earlier memories have faded, to his absolute dread, making his time with her spotty at best. You're glad that he at least has these little pieces of her.

“Would it be alright if we displayed these?” you ask, still paging through the thick book. Long stems of lavender greet you about midway through, the scent still fresh and earthy. “We could put some in a picture frame in our new living room, right next to the couch?”

“I’d like that,” Levi hums, silver eyes drinking in the tight scrawl of his mothers handwriting, the dried petals of her hard work. All of his urgency gone, Levi rests heavily against your side, chin tucked tight to your shoulder.

“It’s a shame there isn’t a baby book though…”

“One’s been sitting on the shelf in our room this entire time,” Levi points out, a bit smug that you never noticed.

“What?”

Laughing at your surprise, Levi softly pats your shoulder before rising, “Let’s take a break after we finish up here. We can go get that boba before we start in the kitchen. One last time.”

Living in the suburbs is an adjustment, that’s for sure.

Everything is just so eerily quiet. There’s no neighbors, bouncing around or yelling, right on the other side of your wall. There’s no constant buzz of traffic, of horns and sirens blaring in the distance, only the soft hum of an occasional car passing by. The air even tastes fresher.

All of your routines were immediately ruined. It’s only a forty minute drive from your previous place, but everything was immediately so different. Every place you frequented, all the little mom&pop shops lining the sides of the busy city streets, every beloved take-out place, all now completely out of the way.

It was unsettling to you, at first, but Levi took to it like a duck in water. Spreading himself out to take up the new space, even heading to the nearby park to go on long runs in the mornings before work. You really should get fit and join him, make it a bonding activity. Given that the basement is quickly progressing its way into becoming a home gym, there’s really no excuse not to.

He’s even sleeping better now, out here where nights are nearly silent, save for the occasional buzz of a cricket or drone of a cicada. On the other hand, you almost miss the noise.

It was a revelation just to have so much space, with an actual back yard to boot. You have tentative plans to buy a hammock to put under the tall, flowering tree in your backyard. It would be a nice place to cuddle up together, lounging for hours beneath the white petals, fluttering softly in the breeze. Even though summer is just approaching, you can’t wait for winter, with long nights of sipping hot chocolate cuddling up in front of the fireplace.

On a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon, as you pull into the driveway, Levi is mowing the front lawn in tight, meticulous lines. You should have known that he’d be obsessive with lawn care. It’s been a solid month since you’ve moved in, but the sight never ceases to surprise you. No doubt, the weed wacker will follow, trimming all of the edges to a perfect point.

Given that the warmer months are quickly approaching, the growing heat, alongside the exertion, has him working shirtless, sweat shining bright along his muscle-packed torso as he pushes the noisy mower across the uneven terrain of your front lawn, winding around tree after tree. You hadn’t even realized how much more work a hilly lawn would be, but Levi seems to enjoy the challenge week after week.

Not even bothering with the garage, you park about halfway up the driveway, waving at your husband as he curiously turns off the mower mid-pass. As you exit your little SUV, he quickly approaches, pulling his goofy little earplugs from his ears to wrap the cord around his sweaty neck.

“Levi,” you greet excitedly as he jogs up to your side. “I got you a surprise!”

Pulled forward by a soft clasp on your shoulder, he greets you with a quick kiss. Brows drawn tight in curiosity, Levi’s gaze his firm on your own as he asks, “Didn’t you have plans with Hange? Did they cancel on you again?”

“Come here! Come here!” you wave at him excitedly, ignoring his questioning gaze. Continuing to wave, you lead him around the backside of your car.

As he follows, frowning down at the mud-coated knees of your jeans, the smattering of darkness coating the front of your t-shirt, Levi asks, “Why are you covered in dirt?”

“Don’t mind that- Look!” With a click, you pop open your trunk, the back end swinging high overhead with a loud creak.

“You bought flowers for the garden?” Levi asks, eyeing the collection of plants packed tight into the trunk of your car. There’s so many that the cheap black plastic containers are all right against one another with no space in between.

“The little lot was still abandoned, but everything was still there. It was crazy overgrown with weeds, but I managed to pull these ones from the mess,” you blurt excitedly, the words coming out a bit too fast.

“Wait -what are you talking about?”

“The little trellis was still there by the way,” you continue unheeded. “Though it was mostly just wooden bits.”

“Have you lost your mind? The fuck are you even saying?” Eyes searching your face, Levi seems to be assessing whether or not you’ve suddenly gone insane during the few hours you’d been away.

Pointing a finger into your trunk, you urge, “Look! Do you recognize them?”

Levi takes a moment to eye the collection, silver gaze drifting across roses, red, yellow, and pink. Lavender in pastel purple, tall and straight in its containment, high enough to brush the roof. Tulips, both monochrome and striped, miss-matched all into one group. At the sight of the big, robust red petals of a hibiscus, his jaw openly drops. “Wha- you- what?”

It looks like his brain has fried, something backfiring along the back of his skull and short circuiting his system. Wide eyed, brows drawn up high behind his bangs, Levi seems to be at a loss for words. His jaw works, mouth opening and closing, lips pursing, but nothing escapes. Chest heaving with deep, rapid breaths, he leans forward to caress the soft red petals.

“I know you were planning on planting some tea, but I think this wouldn’t be too much more work. You could easily do both.” Hopefully this isn’t too much of a burden for him to deal with. Maybe you didn’t think this through completely.

“You,” Levi’s voice is so small, quavering as he struggles to comprehend your gift. He sounds like a small child, awed by the perfect present. “You brought Mom’s garden…”

“It’s not that much, I could only separate out some of it-“

“-oof!” You're cut off, pulled in by a frantic embrace. Levi’s arms pull you hard into his chest, wrapping around your waist and across your back with such strength that it steals all the air from your lungs. Face pressing against your collarbone, you can feel a wetness from where his face burrows against your skin. “Are you crying?”

You haven't seen him cry since your wedding day, several years ago, and even then it’d been quiet. Merely a light shedding of tears, no noise, and even then he’d waited until the two of you were alone to do so. Now, he’s gasping, shoulders shuddering as he sobs into the divot of your collarbone.

“You brought me Mom,” he warbles, almost a whine. The fingers at your shoulder blades become claws as he tries to nuzzle further into your embrace. “I couldn’t go back, not after everything that happened, but you brought her to me.”

“You loved her, more than anything, and she loved you too. But she was taken from you too soon,” you explain softly, patting his back. “We can visit her grave, and yeah we have some of her things, but I- I wanted some part of her to be here, living with us. For you.”

Smoothing your fingers along his bare back, the man practically trembles within your embrace, pressing his whole weight into your form. “All of it might not survive, transplanting can be a bit rough. I did my best with their roots.”

“I love you,” he states, firm even as he hiccoughs. Pressing a wet kiss to your neck, he continues, “I can’t believe you did this.”

“It’s nothing,” you state, firm and simple, even as your eyes start to tear up. Pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, your words are a bit watery as your eyes begin to leak a lazy trail along your cheeks, “We’ll take care of it together.”

Taking deep breaths, Levi struggles to calm down, eyelids fluttering against your sternum. “You're covered in dirt,” he notes again, nose curling up as he peels away from your torso.

“And you're all sweaty,” you chide right back, curling up your nose in mock disgust. Part of you wants to comment on the wet mark he left on your neck, a mix of snot and tears, but he struggles enough with expressing his deeper emotions as is. “Why don’t we take a bit of a break, get some tea, and then start digging holes.”

Levi shakes his head in response, still sniffling a bit, “I don’t want them sitting for too long. That can’t be good for them.”

“They were strong enough to survive on their own for almost 20 years, I’m sure it’ll be fine if you need a break.” Levi shakes his head in response, eyes already accessing the mostly bare stretch of your garden, so you say, “Let’s at least find something to wipe off your face with.”

“It’s fine,” Levi says, “I have a towel folded up on the porch for once I was done with the yard. I can just use that.”

When he wanders back, a bit less sweaty and snotty, his nose is still bright red, the skin around his eyes flushed a bright pink. “Where do you want them?” you ask him.

“Most of them need a lot of sun, so along the front of the house will probably be best.” It’s amazing to you just how much gardening knowledge Levi remembers, despite being so young at the time. “They’ll need water almost daily at first.”

Nodding your head, you decide, “I’ll set a phone alarm so I remember when I get home from work.”

“I’ll get it, you’ve already done more than enough,” Levi replies, waving you off as you begin to pull out your phone.

Pulling the dirty shovel from the back seat of your car, Levi suddenly turns with a start, pointing at you with an accusing finger, “You lied to me!”

“I -uh…,” you start, stuttering at the sudden, absolutely correct, accusation. “I’d merely been in the area..,” you try, the words sounding weak and defeated.

“With a shovel and the trunk of your car lined with a tarp?” Pulling twin sets of cloth from your back seat, the fabric flops around as he jerks them towards you, “You even had gloves!”

Raising your hands in defeat, you concede, “Okay, okay, you got me! I had this all planned out. Hange was totally going to back me up if you’d called them.”

“You went to the East Side by yourself?” At the words, Levi’s sharp gaze drags slowly across your firm, trying to find any sign of injury. “Do you know how dangerous that was? Remember, I got stabbed down there once? I told you about that right?”

“It’s fine! It’s fine!” you soothe, mind picturing the light white skin of the scar decorating the left side of Levi’s belly. “The most I got was some scratches from the thorn bushes.”

“You shouldn’t have gone alone!” Levi asserts angrily, but you know it’s just concern. “You could have actually brought Hange at least, they’d make a good meat shield. I hope you at least had something to protect yourself!”

“I have a taser somewhere in my car? I think it’s in my glove box?”

“You think?” Huffing a loud sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat, Levi pleads, “Next time you do something like this, at least tell me first okay?”

“I’m an adult, I could handle it. I didn’t even really see anyone anyways. The whole apartment complex seems to be abandoned,” you explain. All the windows on the first floor had been broken and the brickwork had been coated with graffiti, but the whole area had been eerily quiet other than the yowling of some stray cats. There’d been a handful of ominous pops in the distance, but that’s something you’ll only mention when you tell this story years down the line. “Honestly the sketchiest part was finding a place to park.”

Shaky hands pulling a pot full of hibiscus from the trunk, one of many since you’d tried to get as much of that one as possible, he remarks, “I can’t believe you sometimes.”

Helping unload some red roses, you say, “The risk was worth it, to bring some of her home for you.” It almost feels as though, this way, she’s still alive. You never got to meet her, but this way your mother-in-law would get to greet you as you came home every day.

You hope that it brings Levi a sense of comfort, having her here with you. That the lingering, distant memories of her blossom and grow alongside them. Her flowers, her garden, brightening up the front of your new home.

Maybe, one day, when your family grows to fill the empty rooms, your little ones will help take care of them with the both of you, tending to Kuchel’s garden just as Levi did.

“Thank you, I -I don’t have words,” Levi stutters, carefully putting the leafy hibiscus on the cement of your driveway. Bluster gone, tears are suddenly building in his eyes once again. “I’m going to pay you back for this.”

The words sound like a threat, but just the warble in his voice tells you he wants to do something sweet for you. “It’s really not necessary.”

Sniffling again, Levi thumbs the soft edge of a red petal. Over the passing years, the plant seems to have grown and grown. Whereas the previous blooms had been big enough to fit on a page, these ones almost dwarf Levi’s entire face. Smiling down at them, soft and sweet, Levi murmurs, “I don’t know how, but I will, just you wait.”

Tag list: @levmada (I should really do one of those polls to get names)

#sad and soft #levi/reader #Levi x reader #levi ackerman #kuchel ackerman #sfw #tw; grief #attack on titan #aot #fanfic #levi

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